


Cas it's F***ing Cold Outside

by Weasleychick32



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean Winchester's Potty Mouth, Dean is a Whiner, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean, M/M, Sam Is So Done, Sam Winchester and Castiel are Brothers-in-Law, hunter husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weasleychick32/pseuds/Weasleychick32
Summary: An injured and cantankerous Dean Winchester is... frightening to say the least, but Cas has him figured out and knows how to placate him best.Beer and jerky, right? ...No???





	1. Time Skip Version - NOT Chronological

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2017 SPN Holiday MixTape Challenge. A HUGE thank you to my sister--Koibitotedare--for betaing for me. I would add some exclamation points but sadly by number row isn't working on my laptop which has been a MAJOR pain in the keister. I've had to Google most of my punctuation and numbers and copy paste... BUT IT'S HERE. And now my laptop can go into surgery. >Insert sad face here<
> 
> BEFORE READING PLEASE NOTE: There are two chapters, but they are both essentially the same story. Chapter One is NOT written in chronological order. I thought it would be fun to jump back forth between past and present so you get the story in chunks. If that's not your cup of tea--or if it drives you batty--that's totally cool and I made Chapter Two especially for YOU. Chapter Two is in chronological order, but again, essentially the same story. So read both chapters or pick your style and read that one, it's up to you.
> 
> Let me know what you think >insert half a dozen exclaimation points here<

 

“Cas, it’s fucking cold outside.”

They made it safely out of the hospital, but at what personal cost to he and Sam?

Cas looks at the three blankets heaped on the floor at the foot of Dean’s motel bed, rejected for various reasons of increasing ridiculousness (too rough, smells like an old lady, and, Cas’s favorite, “it’s so hideous we could have prevented the apocalypse just by holding it up in front of Lucifer and letting his eyes burn out”). He frowns at the lone lightbulb resting on the scuffed nightstand--removed because it was too dark with the light off and too bright with both bulbs. Finally, his gaze settles on Dean, white-faced with his lips pinched, propped up with every pillow their room and the one next door had to offer, the white of the bandages holding his ribs in place peeking out over the top of the sole blanket that was deemed acceptable (also stolen from the room next door).

“I’ll take my chances.”

He flees, letting the door shut on Dean’s protests, and hurries down the hall and around the corner to the elevator. Only a sliver of Sam’s face is visible as the doors draw to a close but--if his barking laugh before the doors seal shut is any indication--he catches sight of Cas. With a scowl, Cas jams the ‘Down’ button with his index finger four times before turning on his heel and heading for the stairs.

He doesn’t think Sam will leave without him, it’s only a supply run, but the thought that he could be stranded with an injured and cantankerous Dean Winchester is… frightening. Maybe they should have left him at the hospital after all.

.

**~*Earlier*~**

.

“This is a stupid plan.” Cas tugs his sleeve petulantly. The white lab coat fits almost the same as his trench coat. _Almost_. It’s just enough of a difference to drive him up the wall--to too tight across the shoulders and missing the comforting weight of his trench. He rolls his shoulders with a scowl.

“Stop messing with it,” Sam snaps, peeking out around the corner in an obvious attempt at subterfuge. He pulls back, apparently satisfied that their abandoned nook at the end of the hall will stay that way. Then, he gives Cas a final once over and nods decisively.

“This is gonna work. As long as you keep making that pissed off face no one’s going to question you.”

Cas glares.

“Yeah, perfect. Just like that. Very _House_.”

“Are we doing this or not?” Cas snaps. Life was so much simpler when he could fly, slipping between atoms in a blink and bypassing humans worried about “insurance” and “payment plans” and “are those claw marks?” to arrive at his desired destination. Then again, if he’d been able to heal they could have skipped the hospital altogether.

“Okay, okay fine.” Sam checks the hall again. “You’re clear, but I don’t get why you’re so eager. You know how Dean is when he’s laid up.”

Cas pulls a face and sweeps into the hall. “Don’t forget to get an access card,” he calls over his shoulder.

He half-wishes they could leave Dean here, let him find his own way out and to the motel once he’s healed up because Sam’s right. ‘Angry bear’ doesn’t do bedridden Dean justice. He sighs, resigned to his fate, and rounds the corner into the main hall. No one looks at him twice as they bustle about, focused on their various tasks and ultimately keeping people alive. He follows suit and stares dead ahead as he strides down the hall and around another corner until he comes to a stop in front of Room 323, a ribboned wreath framing the number.

The door is shut, but he doesn’t knock. The knob turns easily and he lets himself in only to find Dean half-dressed and half out of bed. With a squeak, Dean falls and lands butt-first on the mattress. His hand immediately flies to his ribs as his face contorts in pain.

“ _Fuck_!”

“Apologies,” Cas says shortly, already turning to survey the escape options the room has to offer. The answer is: None. No windows, no second exit, no human-sized air ducts or laundry chutes. They’ll be forced to leave through the main hall to get back to the small alcove in front of the stairwell where he left Sam. From there they have to get Dean down three flights of stairs, through the lobby, and out the front door, unless Sam manages to swipe an access card. Then they can take the exterior door at the bottom of the stairwell and get out without setting off the fire alarm and the Impala will be waiting mere feet away.

“I’d ask if you’ve ever heard of knocking, but I already know the answer to that,” Dean grunts once he’s caught his breath.

Cas thinks this is probably a less than subtle dig over the number of times he’s walked in on Dean in the bathroom. He maintains that if it was truly an issue Dean would remember to lock the door, but they don’t have time for arguing.

“Are you alright?”

He looks pale with stark white bandages wrapped over most of his otherwise bare, but heavily bruised torso. But he’s upright and awake so that’s better off than the last time he’d seen him.

“Severe bruising, three fractured ribs, one broken--had to get all wrapped up because it was floating around and they were worried about it puncturing my lung--some kickass whiplash, and a helluva headache, but hey, I’m doin’ _great_.”

“I’m glad,” Cas responds dryly, suppressing an eye roll with admirable resolve. “Are you ready to go?”

“Hell yeah. How are we getting out of here?”

“The door.” Cas gestures blandly to the only door in the room. “After you.”

Dean grimaces as he painfully gets to his feet. “Better have a plan,” he grumbles. In the time it takes him to shuffle to the door, taking measured breaths as he focuses on moving his feet, Cas swipes the clipboard from the end of the bed and easily beats Dean to the door. The fact that Dean doesn’t comment, only swipes his sweaty brow with the back of his forearm, tells Cas they’re operating on limited time.

“Just be yourself,” he tells Dean.

Dean scoffs lightly, one hand holding his chest while the other is propped against the wall. “Since when has that ever worked out for me?”

Cas cracks open the door and checks the hall. It’s clear. “It worked with me.”

He slips a hand under Dean’s elbow and gently leads him out the door as they begin the slow, halting journey to Sam. Dean is quiet until they reach the main hall whereupon his complaining picks back up like it never quit.

“The lights are too damn bright here.”

“Everything hurts.”

“Walking is stupid. You could have bothered to get me a wheelchair?”

Cas adopts a calm, medically professional persona and placates him for the sake of performance.

“Your eyes will adjust with time.”

“The medicine will take effect soon.”

“You need to walk to ensure your lungs are filling as much as they should be.”

No one looks at them twice.... Well, a few people do, but it’s more to take in Dean’s exposed physique than to regard them with suspicion. He should have made him put on a shirt. He's going to be very cold once they get outside but it's too late to turn back now.

Finally,- _-finally_ \--they round the corner where he left Sam and find him peeking through the glass from the stairwell. He grins at the sight of them and pushes open the door so they can cram through the doorway.

“Feelin’ alright, gramps?”

Dean glares, but only manages a breathless “Shut up,” in response. Cas and Sam trade worried looks over his head.

“Did you get it?” Cas asks.

Sam shakes his head. “Looks like we’re going to have to go out through the lobby and hope it’s too busy for anyone to notice.”

“Fuck that,” Dean says and pulls a white plastic card out of his pocket. “You’re slippin’, Sammy.”

“Hiding in plain sight can get you a long way,” Sam snaps, but snatches the card from between Dean’s fingers.

“Yeah, but access cards’ll get you a lot farther.”

Sam scowls and turns to lead the way. “Let’s see how snarky you are after three stories.”

Dean groans, but shuffles along after him, down the first step. Cas remains under his elbow and no one comments. It’s a long way down.

.

**~*Present*~**

.

“Twizzlers or sour punch straws?” Cas asks, squinting at the packages in his hands. Sam considers them over his shoulder with a frown.

“Safest to get both.”

Cas concedes to his expertise and drops them both in the cart on top of the beer. “Should we get some blankets, too?”

Sam snorts. “Nah. He’ll be fine.”

With a frown, Cas says, “We raided the room next door and he still complained. Clearly, the quality of blanket offered by the motel is substandard.”

“Dean doesn’t care about the quality of the blankets, man,” Sam says, exasperated. “He-- nevermind. Trust me, alright? He’ll be fine once he gets what he wants.”

Thoughtfully, Cas follows Sam a couple aisles down where they load up on pain meds, ACE bandages, and Icy Hot.

“Beer and jerky?”

“What?” Sam stops, then rolls his eyes as he realizes Cas is still stuck on their previous conversation and steers the cart back into the main aisle, weaving through fellow customers, an unusual amount for this time of night, but normal, Sam assured him, considering how close it is to Christmas. “No, dude. You guys are the worst. I’m not gonna tell you because I think Dean is perfectly able to tell you himself.”

“He’s injured,” Cas reminds him, curiously eyeing a bath bomb display as they stride past on their way to the checkout.

“Yet his mouth works fine.”

The past two hours of incessant complaining and barked orders flashes through Cas’s mind like a film reel and he concedes the point.

Still… while Sam isn’t looking, he sneaks a pair of fuzzy green and red striped socks into the cart and is content that at least Dean’s feet will be warm.

.

**~*Earlier*~**

.

“Sonnuvabitch!”

“I _told you_ we should have waited until morning!”

“It hunts at _night_.”

“Yeah, and guess who’s on the menu, Dean!”

“Better us than more campers!”

“We could still save them. We know where the den is and we already got the others--,”

“Be quiet both of you!” Cas snaps, angel blade at ready and ears straining. “I can’t hear-- _Dean!_ ”

Dean dives for cover, but Cas’s half-second warning isn’t enough; a shadowed blur sends him flying across the clearing with a shout. He slams into a tree, head popping back against the rough bark, he goes limp and his flamethrower slips through lax fingers into the frosted grass.

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam roars, sweeping his own flame in a fruitless arc as he backs up towards his brother. Cas glances fearfully at Dean one last time before turning his full attention to every snapping twig and rustling leaf in the thick wood surrounding them. He may have come back from The Empty without most of his “mojo”, but he has grace enough for this.

The rustling starts again 100 yards past Sam. Cas doesn’t waste a second.

“Sam, down!” he bellows, sprinting across the clearing. Sam flattens himself over Dean and they both crash to the hard-packed dirt, the air in Dean’s lungs forced out with an _whump_.

A heartbeat later--a blur of movement, the crack and pop of the undergrowth--Castiel thrusts his sword barely keeping his feet as he meets the full force of the towering ten-foot tall monster head on. With a sickening _squelch_ , his angel blade plunges into the wendigo's middle. It screams and drops to its knees as a putrid death-like stench seeps from its bloody wound. With a twist, Castiel rips his blade free and kicks the dead Wendigo to the ground with vicious satisfaction.

“We should burn it,” Sam says from where he now sits at Dean’s side, teeth chattering and his eyes wide where they’re fixed on the Wendigo even as he measures Dean’s pulse with two fingers pressed against his neck.

“That’s not important now.” Cas drops to his knees at Dean’s side and lets his sword fall to the ground. “How is he?”

Now that he’s no longer distracted by their imminent deaths, he can hear the way Dean’s breathing wheezes shallowly from between his lips. He places a hand on Dean’s forehead and bitterness wells up in his throat. Once upon a time, he could have healed Dean with a thought, but that was a long time ago and by now he knows better than to dwell in the past.

“I think we should get him to a hospital,” Sam says.

Cas’s head snaps up and he takes in the grim set to Sam’s mouth and the worried pucker between his brows. He can count on one hand the number of times Dean has actually gone to the hospital for his own injuries. It was once Castiel that put him there.

A spike of fear lodges itself in his gut.

“We really should burn it,” Sam says, eyes on the Wendigo, but he doesn’t leave Dean’s side.

“It’s dead,” Cas says with finality. He remembers his blade and picks it up, wipes the blackish sludge onto his slacks before he stows it up his sleeve. He may be more human than angel, but his angel blade is still more than capable of doing its job.

“But what if someone--,”

“Let them wonder.”

Dean is pale under the moonlight and the starlight seems to cast his lips in a faint bluish hue… Or maybe it’s not the light. Cas moves with the intent to scoop Dean up in a cradle, but Sam stops him.

“Woah, woah, woah! I’m pretty sure he’s got at least some broken ribs and we don’t want to screw the pooch and puncture a lung, if it isn’t already.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Cas snaps, lifting his arms only to let them fall back to his sides with a slap. They’re wasting time they don’t have. Dean hasn’t woken up yet and that’s worrying if nothing else.

Sam’s focus narrows in on Cas’s sleeves. “Take off your coat. I have an idea.”

His trench coat makes for a shitty stretcher but it’s only a ten-minute trek back to the Impala if Cas leads. They can make it work.

Sam snorts as they shuffle past the oozing corpse. “You’d think they’d learn not to mess with you and Dean by now.”

Cas casts a dismissive glance at the body and continues guiding them out of the clearing. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would have killed it whether it hurt my husband or not.”

.

**~*Present*~**

.

They return to the motel room with far too many bags and perfect timing. Looney Tunes is playing quietly and Dean is fast asleep.

Sam snorts at the TV. “Aww looks like he missed you.” He sets his bags on the wobbly desk and manages to knock over the lamp, waking Dean.

Dean comes to with a snort, but only removes his gun halfway from under his solitary pillow--the others are all over the floor--before he fuzzily focuses on Cas and re-settles. The peace only lasts as long as it takes for him to remember how to make his tongue work.

“Took you douche-nozzles long enough,” he grunts. “These pillows suck. The bed has _lumps_ . I miss my memory foam. Why is this room so damn _cold_.”

Cas rolls his eyes. It's mid-December in the Midwest, of course it's cold, but he makes for the thermostat regardless until Sam rights the lamp with a _thwack_ and turns on Dean. “For God’s sake Dean, nut up and tell him you want to cuddle!”

Dean’s eyes go wide like a deer in headlights. Then a light blush creeps into his cheeks and he grumbles something unintelligible, shifting further down the bed before he stops with a grimace of pain.

“Is that true, Dean?” Cas demands, looking around at the mess of rejected bedding. “You’ve made all of these complaints because I wasn’t in bed with you?”

Dean glares at Sam and screws his lips into a silent pout. Cas sighs and begins unknotting his tie. Sam pulls a face and hurriedly turns his back to fuss with their bags.

“I wish you would say these things instead of making everything so difficult.”

“That just don’t sound like me, Cas.” His eyes are trained on Cas’s fingers.

The corner of Cas’s lips tips up as he tosses his tie to the floor. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He shrugs out of his coat and begins unbuttoning his shirt. His gaze lands on the light bulb.

“I understand the pillows and blankets, but not the lightbulb,” he confesses. “How was that a clue you wanted me in your bed?”

Sam makes a strange choking noise behind him but Cas has learned to ignore those. Dean pulls a face and mutters something that sounds like, “It really was too bright.”

He pulls his button-up off and makes quick work of his pants, kicking them to the carpet as he kneels on the bed and crawls under the blanket beside Dean, clad in his boxers and undershirt per Sam’s stipulations. When they checked in and found there was only one room available in the motel this close to Christmas Sam felt the need for some “ground rules”. It was a rather short list considering how many words were exchanged before Sam felt confident his point had gotten across. There was a lot of repetition. The number one thing Cas took away from the conversation was--

“No hanky-panky!”

“We know,” Cas and Dean chorus, Dean’s voice is muffled by Cas’s shirt as he noses closer, twining their legs and grimacing through the pain of moving until he’s settled and he lets out a breath of relief. Cas reaches up and lightly scratches his fingers against Dean’s scalp until the deep lines on his forehead smooth and he drifts into a light sleep.

When he finally looks away some minutes later he catches Sam turning away with a soft, pleased expression. It’s not the first time he’s caught him making that face at him and Dean and it lightens his heart that he approves.

It's a shame that Dean had to get hurt for it to happen but it'll be nice, he decides, to stay home in the bunker and celebrate the holidays.


	2. Chronological Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the same story as Chapter One, but told in Chronological order. Let me know what you think <33

“Sonnuvabitch!”

“I  _ told you _ we should have waited until morning!”

“It hunts at  _ night _ .”

“Yeah, and guess who’s on the menu, Dean!”

“Better us than more campers!”

“We could still save them. We know where the den is and we already got the others--,”

“Be quiet both of you!” Cas snaps, angel blade at ready and ears straining. “I can’t hear--  _ Dean! _ ”

Dean dives for cover, but Cas’s half-second warning isn’t enough; a shadowed blur sends him flying across the clearing with a shout. He slams into a tree, head popping back against the rough bark, he goes limp and his flamethrower slips through lax fingers into the frosted grass.

“ _ Dean! _ ” Sam roars, sweeping his own flame in a fruitless arc as he backs up towards his brother. Cas glances fearfully at Dean one last time before turning his full attention to every snapping twig and rustling leaf in the thick wood surrounding them. He may have come back from The Empty without most of his “mojo”, but he has grace enough for this.

The rustling starts again 100 yards past Sam. Cas doesn’t waste a second.

“Sam, down!” he bellows, sprinting across the clearing. Sam flattens himself over Dean and they both crash to the hard-packed dirt, the air in Dean’s lungs forced out with an  _ whump _ .

A heartbeat later--a blur of movement, the crack and pop of the undergrowth--Castiel thrusts his sword barely keeping his feet as he meets the full force of the towering ten-foot tall monster head on. With a sickening  _ squelch _ , his angel blade plunges into the wendigo's middle. It screams and drops to its knees as a putrid death-like stench seeps from its bloody wound. With a twist, Castiel rips his blade free and kicks the dead Wendigo to the ground with vicious satisfaction.

“We should burn it,” Sam says from where he now sits at Dean’s side, teeth chattering and his eyes wide where they’re fixed on the Wendigo even as he measures Dean’s pulse with two fingers pressed against his neck.

“That’s not important now.” Cas drops to his knees at Dean’s side and lets his sword fall to the ground. “How is he?”

Now that he’s no longer distracted by their imminent deaths, he can hear the way Dean’s breathing wheezes shallowly from between his lips. He places a hand on Dean’s forehead and bitterness wells up in his throat. Once upon a time, he could have healed Dean with a thought, but that was a long time ago and by now he knows better than to dwell in the past.

“I think we should get him to a hospital,” Sam says.

Cas’s head snaps up and he takes in the grim set to Sam’s mouth and the worried pucker between his brows. He can count on one hand the number of times Dean has actually gone to the hospital for his own injuries. It was once Castiel that put him there.

A spike of fear lodges itself in his gut.

“We really should burn it,” Sam says, eyes on the Wendigo, but he doesn’t leave Dean’s side.

“It’s dead,” Cas says with finality. He remembers his blade and picks it up, wipes the blackish sludge onto his slacks before he stows it up his sleeve. He may be more human than angel, but his angel blade is still more than capable of doing its job.

“But what if someone--,”

“Let them wonder.”

Dean is pale under the moonlight and the starlight seems to cast his lips in a faint bluish hue… Or maybe it’s not the light. Cas moves with the intent to scoop Dean up in a cradle, but Sam stops him.

“Woah, woah, woah! I’m pretty sure he’s got at least some broken ribs and we don’t want to screw the pooch and puncture a lung, if it isn’t already.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Cas snaps, lifting his arms only to let them fall back to his sides with a slap. They’re wasting time they don’t have. Dean hasn’t woken up yet and that’s worrying if nothing else.

Sam’s focus narrows in on Cas’s sleeves. “Take off your coat. I have an idea.”

His trench coat makes for a shitty stretcher but it’s only a ten-minute trek back to the Impala if Cas leads. They can make it work.

Sam snorts as they shuffle past the oozing corpse. “You’d think they’d learn not to mess with you and Dean by now.”

Cas casts a dismissive glance at the body and continues guiding them out of the clearing. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would have killed it whether it hurt my husband or not.”

.

~*~

.

“This is a stupid plan.” Cas tugs his sleeve petulantly. The white lab coat fits almost the same as his trench coat.  _ Almost _ . It’s just enough of a difference to drive him up the wall--to too tight across the shoulders and missing the comforting weight of his trench. He rolls his shoulders with a scowl.

“Stop messing with it,” Sam snaps, peeking out around the corner in an obvious attempt at subterfuge. He pulls back, apparently satisfied that their abandoned nook at the end of the hall will stay that way. Then, he gives Cas a final once over and nods decisively.

“This is gonna work. As long as you keep making that pissed off face no one’s going to question you.”

Cas glares.

“Yeah, perfect. Just like that. Very  _ House _ .”

“Are we doing this or not?” Cas snaps. Life was so much simpler when he could fly, slipping between atoms in a blink and bypassing humans worried about “insurance” and “payment plans” and “are those claw marks?” to arrive at his desired destination. Then again, if he’d been able to heal they could have skipped the hospital altogether.

“Okay, okay fine.” Sam checks the hall again. “You’re clear, but I don’t get why you’re so eager. You know how Dean is when he’s laid up.”

Cas pulls a face and sweeps into the hall. “Don’t forget to get an access card,” he calls over his shoulder.

He half-wishes they could leave Dean here, let him find his own way out and to the motel once he’s healed up because Sam’s right. ‘Angry bear’ doesn’t do bedridden Dean justice. He sighs, resigned to his fate, and rounds the corner into the main hall. No one looks at him twice as they bustle about, focused on their various tasks and ultimately keeping people alive. He follows suit and stares dead ahead as he strides down the hall and around another corner until he comes to a stop in front of Room 323, a ribboned wreath framing the number.

The door is shut, but he doesn’t knock. The knob turns easily and he lets himself in only to find Dean half-dressed and half out of bed. With a squeak, Dean falls and lands butt-first on the mattress. His hand immediately flies to his ribs as his face contorts in pain.

“ _ Fuck _ !”

“Apologies,” Cas says shortly, already turning to survey the escape options the room has to offer. The answer is: None. No windows, no second exit, no human-sized air ducts or laundry chutes. They’ll be forced to leave through the main hall to get back to the small alcove in front of the stairwell where he left Sam. From there they have to get Dean down three flights of stairs, through the lobby, and out the front door, unless Sam manages to swipe an access card. Then they can take the exterior door at the bottom of the stairwell and get out without setting off the fire alarm and the Impala will be waiting mere feet away.

“I’d ask if you’ve ever heard of knocking, but I already know the answer to that,” Dean grunts once he’s caught his breath.

Cas thinks this is probably a less than subtle dig over the number of times he’s walked in on Dean in the bathroom. He maintains that if it was truly an issue Dean would remember to lock the door, but they don’t have time for arguing.

“Are you alright?”

He looks pale with stark white bandages wrapped over most of his otherwise bare, but heavily bruised torso. But he’s upright and awake so that’s better off than the last time he’d seen him.

“Severe bruising, three fractured ribs, one broken--had to get all wrapped up because it was floating around and they were worried about it puncturing my lung--some kickass whiplash, and a helluva headache, but hey, I’m doin’  _ great _ .”

“I’m glad,” Cas responds dryly, suppressing an eye roll with admirable resolve. “Are you ready to go?”

“Hell yeah. How are we getting out of here?”

“The door.” Cas gestures blandly to the only door in the room. “After you.”

Dean grimaces as he painfully gets to his feet. “Better have a plan,” he grumbles. In the time it takes him to shuffle to the door, taking measured breaths as he focuses on moving his feet, Cas swipes the clipboard from the end of the bed and easily beats Dean to the door. The fact that Dean doesn’t comment, only swipes his sweaty brow with the back of his forearm, tells Cas they’re operating on limited time.

“Just be yourself,” he tells Dean.

Dean scoffs lightly, one hand holding his chest while the other is propped against the wall. “Since when has that ever worked out for me?”

Cas cracks open the door and checks the hall. It’s clear. “It worked with me.”

He slips a hand under Dean’s elbow and gently leads him out the door as they begin the slow, halting journey to Sam. Dean is quiet until they reach the main hall whereupon his complaining picks back up like it never quit.

“The lights are too damn bright here.”

“Everything hurts.”

“Walking is stupid. You could have bothered to get me a wheelchair?”

Cas adopts a calm, medically professional persona and placates him for the sake of performance.

“Your eyes will adjust with time.”

“The medicine will take effect soon.”

“You need to walk to ensure your lungs are filling as much as they should be.”

No one looks at them twice.... Well, a few people do, but it’s more to take in Dean’s exposed physique than to regard them with suspicion. He should have made him put on a shirt. He's going to be very cold once they get outside but it's too late to turn back now.

Finally,- _ -finally _ \--they round the corner where he left Sam and find him peeking through the glass from the stairwell. He grins at the sight of them and pushes open the door so they can cram through the doorway.

“Feelin’ alright, gramps?”

Dean glares, but only manages a breathless “Shut up,” in response. Cas and Sam trade worried looks over his head.

“Did you get it?” Cas asks.

Sam shakes his head. “Looks like we’re going to have to go out through the lobby and hope it’s too busy for anyone to notice.”

“Fuck that,” Dean says and pulls a white plastic card out of his pocket. “You’re slippin’, Sammy.”

“Hiding in plain sight can get you a long way,” Sam snaps, but snatches the card from between Dean’s fingers.

“Yeah, but access cards’ll get you a lot farther.”

Sam scowls and turns to lead the way. “Let’s see how snarky you are after three stories.”

Dean groans, but shuffles along after him, down the first step. Cas remains under his elbow and no one comments. It’s a long way down.

.

~*~

.

“Cas, it’s fucking cold outside.”

They made it safely out of the hospital, but at what personal cost to he and Sam?

Cas looks at the three blankets heaped on the floor at the foot of Dean’s motel bed, rejected for various reasons of increasing ridiculousness (too rough, smells like an old lady, and, Cas’s favorite, “it’s so hideous we could have prevented the apocalypse just by holding it up in front of Lucifer and letting his eyes burn out”). He frowns at the lone lightbulb resting on the scuffed nightstand--removed because it was too dark with the light off and too bright with both bulbs. Finally, his gaze settles on Dean, white-faced with his lips pinched, propped up with every pillow their room and the one next door had to offer, the white of the bandages holding his ribs in place peeking out over the top of the sole blanket that was deemed acceptable (also stolen from the room next door).

“I’ll take my chances.”

He flees, letting the door shut on Dean’s protests, and hurries down the hall and around the corner to the elevator. Only a sliver of Sam’s face is visible as the doors draw to a close but--if his barking laugh before the doors seal shut is any indication--he catches sight of Cas. With a scowl, Cas jams the ‘Down’ button with his index finger four times before turning on his heel and heading for the stairs.

He doesn’t think Sam will leave without him, it’s only a supply run, but the thought that he could be stranded with an injured and cantankerous Dean Winchester is… frightening.

.

~*~

.

“Twizzlers or sour punch straws?” Cas asks, squinting at the packages in his hands. Sam considers them over his shoulder with a frown.

“Safest to get both.”

Cas concedes to his expertise and drops them both in the cart on top of the beer. “Should we get some blankets, too?”

Sam snorts. “Nah. He’ll be fine.”

With a frown, Cas says, “We raided the room next door and he still complained. Clearly, the quality of blanket offered by the motel is substandard.”

“Dean doesn’t care about the quality of the blankets, man,” Sam says, exasperated. “He-- nevermind. Trust me, alright? He’ll be fine once he gets what he wants.”

Thoughtfully, Cas follows Sam a couple aisles down where they load up on pain meds, ACE bandages, and Icy Hot.

“Beer and jerky?”

“What?” Sam stops, then rolls his eyes as he realizes Cas is still stuck on their previous conversation and steers the cart back into the main aisle, weaving through fellow customers, an unusual amount for this time of night, but normal, Sam assured him, considering how close it is to Christmas. “No, dude. You guys are the worst. I’m not gonna tell you because I think Dean is perfectly able to tell you himself.”

“He’s injured,” Cas reminds him, curiously eyeing a bath bomb display as they stride past on their way to the checkout.

“Yet his mouth works fine.”

The past two hours of incessant complaining and barked orders flashes through Cas’s mind like a film reel and he concedes the point.

Still… while Sam isn’t looking, he sneaks a pair of fuzzy green and red striped socks into the cart and is content that at least Dean’s feet will be warm.

.

~*~

.

They return to the motel room with far too many bags and perfect timing. Looney Tunes is playing quietly and Dean is fast asleep.

Sam snorts at the TV. “Aww looks like he missed you.” He sets his bags on the wobbly desk and manages to knock over the lamp, waking Dean.

Dean comes to with a snort, but only removes his gun halfway from under his solitary pillow--the others are all over the floor--before he fuzzily focuses on Cas and re-settles. The peace only lasts as long as it takes for him to remember how to make his tongue work.

“Took you douche-nozzles long enough,” he grunts. “These pillows suck. The bed has  _ lumps _ . I miss my memory foam. Why is this room so damn  _ cold _ .”

Cas rolls his eyes. It's mid-December in the Midwest, of course it's cold, but he makes for the thermostat regardless until Sam rights the lamp with a  _ thwack _ and turns on Dean. “For God’s sake Dean, nut up and tell him you want to cuddle!”

Dean’s eyes go wide like a deer in headlights. Then a light blush creeps into his cheeks and he grumbles something unintelligible, shifting further down the bed before he stops with a grimace of pain.

“Is that true, Dean?” Cas demands, looking around at the mess of rejected bedding. “You’ve made all of these complaints because I wasn’t in bed with you?”

Dean glares at Sam and screws his lips into a silent pout. Cas sighs and begins unknotting his tie. Sam pulls a face and hurriedly turns his back to fuss with their bags.

“I wish you would say these things instead of making everything so difficult.”

“That just don’t sound like me, Cas.” His eyes are trained on Cas’s fingers.

The corner of Cas’s lips tips up as he tosses his tie to the floor. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He shrugs out of his coat and begins unbuttoning his shirt. His gaze lands on the light bulb.

“I understand the pillows and blankets, but not the lightbulb,” he confesses. “How was that a clue you wanted me in your bed?”

Sam makes a strange choking noise behind him but Cas has learned to ignore those. Dean pulls a face and mutters something that sounds like, “It really was too bright.”

He pulls his button-up off and makes quick work of his pants, kicking them to the carpet as he kneels on the bed and crawls under the blanket beside Dean, clad in his boxers and undershirt per Sam’s stipulations. When they checked in and found there was only one room available in the motel this close to Christmas Sam felt the need for some “ground rules”. It was a rather short list considering how many words were exchanged before Sam felt confident his point had gotten across. There was a lot of repetition. The number one thing Cas took away from the conversation was--

“No hanky-panky!”

“We know,” Cas and Dean chorus, Dean’s voice is muffled by Cas’s shirt as he noses closer, twining their legs and grimacing through the pain of moving until he’s settled and he lets out a breath of relief. Cas reaches up and lightly scratches his fingers against Dean’s scalp until the deep lines on his forehead smooth and he drifts into a light sleep.

When he finally looks away some minutes later he catches Sam turning away with a soft, pleased expression. It’s not the first time he’s caught him making that face at him and Dean and it lightens his heart that he approves.

It's a shame that Dean had to get hurt for it to happen but it'll be nice, he decides, to stay home in the bunker and celebrate the holidays.


End file.
